


The Boyz from S.N.U.G.L.

by itstonedme



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Faculty (1998)
Genre: AU, M/M, Satire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2592536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone who watched <i>The Man From U.N.C.L.E.</i> in the 1960s will know that it featured flimsy spy vs. spy plots that were always solved within 60 minutes, with all kinds of Bond-ish gadgets, sexily-named femme fatales, double entendres and fast cars. It also featured two poster pin-up, sexy heroes – Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin -- an American and a Russian who fostered unity in that Cold War era. Running <i>U.N.C.L.E.</i> operations was the dour Alexander Waverly. What follows is a tongue-in-cheek homage that mashes Zeke and Casey of the present day into that world with a little LOTR thrown in. I hope it makes sense, and I hope you have fun.  First posted on LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/103672.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boyz from S.N.U.G.L.

You are about to meet two extraordinary young men. When you do, you might notice how our young heroes look like ordinary fellows on the corporate quest, trim and tidy in their own ways, exuding confidence and poise. You would be mistaken, however, if you were to presume this is the milieu in which they make their livelihood. 

For they are, in point of fact, the Boyz from S.N.U.G.L., a global organization better known as the Secret Non-Discriminatory Unimpeded Gay League. They are genuine undercover operatives, "tasked" – as is endlessly uttered in the second decade of the new millennium – with ensuring the freedom of individuals to practice their sexual orientation and law-abiding preferences without fear of ridicule or retaliation wherever, whenever and however that may be. 

Their clandestine headquarters are in the bustling metropolis of New York City. But far from the grandeur of the United Nations complex or 30 Rockefeller Plaza with its New England embellishments, the headquarters of S.N.U.G.L. are hidden deep within the city's bowels. It is accessed by many portals, all disguised and assigned on an irregular basis, all designed to throw off the scent of the organization's radically theological enemies, who are legion. 

And so it is on this day that we see our first young man, Ezekiel Polo, dressed in his signature Ralph Lauren wool twill suit as he steps from his car at the curb of a quiet non-descript East Village address. Note that Ezekiel has had no trouble finding a spot to park; he never does. Note too the movement in his hips, that Travolta-esque ball-bearing roll that informs of the sexual confidence and relaxation of its owner. 

At exactly the same moment, an Italian-made motorcycle rolls up to the curb several dozen feet away, its driver too finding no lack of curbside real estate. The rider, dressed in unadorned black leathers, shuts the throttling motor and unbuckles his helmet, pulling it away from his silky raven locks. This is Kasy Konorovitch, the other half of our intrepid duo. He lifts a gloved hand to remove his sunglasses, revealing eyes of exceptional size and colour. These eyes immediately lock with those of Ezekiel, who by now is approaching along the sidewalk.

You might think it a coincidence that they should arrive at this exact location at exactly the same moment. You would be wrong.

They do not speak. There is only the briefest of nods before Konorovitch sets his side stand and gets off the bike, bringing his helmet with him. Does he lock the vehicle? Of course not. Nor has Ezekiel locked his. They are, after all, the Boyz from S.N.U.G.L. Vehicle theft is not part of their world. 

Nor part of the script, for that matter.

Ezekiel pushes through the doorway of an unassuming retail shop, or it might be, if one considers 'unassuming' the painted storefront windows that scream: **This Week's Ass-tronomical Special!!! 60% off Dildos and Dongs!!** Kasy falls in one step behind, and the two of them nod to the young man behind the counter as they continue to the back of the store. Once there, they make their way through corridors to the warehouse and through this room to a plain door near a rack at the back. Polo places his thumb on the lidded reader next to it, which opens to a keypad into which he presses a numeric code, followed by Konorovitch entering his code, which causes a light to turn green, allowing Polo to speak a very secret code word for voice recognition before Konorovitch is prompted to do likewise, after which they each then stare into an iris-reader before the door lock releases and Ezekiel turns the handle. Phew! S.N.U.G.L. is nothing if not tight.

There. They have arrived. They are ready to be briefed for their next mission.

On the locked side of S.N.U.G.L., they traverse another warren of corridors too tedious to describe, handing out their morning greetings to various assistants and employees they pass along the way until the corridor ends at the glass-walled brain centre of their enterprise's department. Inside, an elegant bespectacled septuagenarian stands studying suspended 3-D holographs on a reader, sliding several aside after he has finished with them. Alliteration indeed!

"Boyz," he says pleasantly, not glancing from his work. 

Meet Ian McKleverly. He is Ezekiel and Kasy's boss and the one who sends them on their missions. Like Kasy Konorovitch on this very day, he too is clad in a black turtleneck although he has upped his attire to include black silk wool trousers, unlike Kasy's black denim jeans. His visage, weathered and thoughtful, is topped by a fierce silver mane, and his posture is agile and straight because he long ago figured that sitting at a desk all day is as deadly as the cigarettes he is loathe to give up. 

"What's on tap?" Ezekiel asks his boss as he peruses the spy specialties laid out on a nearby table. 

"A rather nasty case of kidnapping and reprogramming," McKleverly replies. "Seems a so-called mid-western Church has been snatching young men and forcing them into relations with women in the belief it will reset their sexual programming. Heinous practice. They've been extremely careful to leave no tracks. Here, take a look at their leader." He slides a frame to eye level as both Ezekiel and Kasy flank him so that they might all take a look at the dastardly cad who rotates in front of them in miniature 3D.

"You see it, Kase?" Ezekiel asks. 

"Oh yeah," Kasy responds.

"Terribly closeted," Ian agrees. "So one part of your mission is to expose that, the louder the better. Then there is this creature." He slides a second frame onto the page so that both holographs rotate in split screen. "This woman is the reprogrammer. You may choose to label her with another R word, and you would not be wrong," McKleverly concludes.

"If it's okay with you, Kasy, let me deal with that bitch," Ezekiel smiles.

Kasy looks more closely at the dark-haired man with the arching eye brows, the so-called "pastor" of the flock. "I was hoping you'd say that," he replies.

"He'll be a tough nut to crack," McCleverly adds solemnly. 

"I understand," Kasy replies with equal gravity. "I go wherever I'm told to go and come whenever I can."

*

If one were to throw a dart at a map of the continental U.S., the bull's eye – or the ass hole, depending upon one's point of view – would be where one would find The Leftball Bathtub Church. It is literally in the very centre of the country which might have led to the delusion among its few but very vociferous members that it and its dogma are the center of the universe. They are a hateful group, and for some strange god-fearing reason, they have chosen to see the appendages parked at the juncture of legs and torso as the manifestation of all things evil when not sanctioned as they see fit to sanction. Thus, any sexual acts that are not between a man and woman married before an altar for the sole purpose of procreation with the lights off is not only sinful, but so evil it needs to be rooted out. By the root. 

Preaching this gospel is the Rev. Karl Urbanite. Despite his name, he is a country boy whose upbringing included the frequent observation of a lot of farm animals fornicating. From this fount of knowledge, he has concluded a few things: that all animals, man and beast, thus engage with the opposite sex; that such engagement isn't necessarily consensual; that it is intended for procreation; and that it has been ordained by God via Noah's Ark. Any same-sex humping that he observed appeared to have been misguided because it failed to result in a goat or a chicken and must therefore be perverted. Thus sexual behaviour for man or beast is really very simple to the pastor: if there is to be no hope of issue (meaning a mini creature), there is no purpose. And if there is no purpose, then it is a sin. A leads to B leads to C in a very direct and predestined line.

As Kasy researches the Reverend Karl, he wonders what the good pastor would have to say about a rainbow and its purpose. 

*

We skip ahead a few days and many hundreds of miles. Kasy Konorovitch now stands before the wooden doors of a three-storey stone building sandwiched on a city street in downtown mid-America. A plaque on the wall at eye level reads "Leftball Bathtub Church, f. 1969". Beside it is an intercom. Kasy presses the buzzer. 

You might be surprised to see that Konorovitch does not resemble the young man as we last saw him. That is because he has adopted one of his many guises, this time that of a rather nerdy high school student -- Chucks, chinos, checked shirt, school jacket and dude bag. Around his neck hangs a semi-professional camera. He looks nervous as he glances around but this is merely a ruse for the benefit of all the remotely controlled cameras he has been taking stock of throughout the property.

"May I help you?" a voice asks Kasy through the speaker.

"Um, I'm Casey Connor," our hero of the hour states. "From Herrington High. I've an interview with Reverend Urbanite for my school newspaper." He glances anxiously into the security camera, big eyes liquid with anxiety, his visage an adorable Walter Keane painting. 

There's a pause before the door lock clicks. "Please come in," the voice tells Kasy. 

The body which owns the voice is sitting behind a smart, sleek reception desk smack in the centre of the foyer that Kasy walks into, a pretty young woman wearing a head set and large smile. 

"Good afternoon," she tells Kasy pleasantly. "The Reverend will be down to greet you personally in a moment."

Kasy thanks her and looks around at some of the pictures hanging on the walls, which is more reminiscent of a hall from an Ivy League school than a quasi-legitimate church. There are many pictures showcasing the Reverend Karl shaking some hand or pinching some baby's cheek. There are others of placarded protestors, their faces distorted with rage. Kasy can only conclude that hate towards others appears to be worthy of special honour within this pious establishment. This is a comforting thought for Kasy since it wholly bolsters the satisfaction he expects to derive when he does unto others as he figures they would do unto him.

"Mr. Connor," a dulcet voice calls out. Kasy turns with a smile as he takes in the debonair, immaculately groomed Reverend Urbanite descending the carpeted staircase from an upper floor. The leader of the Leftball Bathtub Church is certainly camera-ready, Kasy thinks, although his line of thought is tracking less towards evangelical sermons on a specialty channel and more towards breaking news on MSNBC. 

Kasy makes his eyes go wider to match his smile. "It's an honour, sir," he says, eagerly stepping forward with his hand out.

The Reverend takes Kasy's hand, his eyes never wavering from Kasy's own. "Yes," he agrees, taking in the creamy sweetness of Kasy's face, the cherubic innocence. "It truly is." Heavens, the angels must have wept when this creature was made! He turns to the receptionist. "Casey and I will meet in my office. Could you send up…" He turns back to Kasy. "What might you fancy? A soda? Tea? Sandwiches? Something sweet?"

"Oh, I'm fine!" Kasy says enthusiastically. "I've had lunch. Maybe a Coke?"

"Coke it is," the Reverend replies. "Let's go up."

The Reverend is very conversational as they make their way to his upstairs office. Once there, they sit for Kasy's interview in an area furnished with a pair of sofas and several comfortable arm chairs. No desk to separate the reverend from a potential member of his flock, no never. He crosses his legs, one arm casually draped on the sofa back.

"Oh!" Kasy says, picking up his camera because he's nothing if not enthusiastic. "That's a great shot. Do you mind?"

The Reverend Karl nods airily and indulges in this bit of vanity.

Kasy looks through the viewfinder, but he lowers the camera without taking the picture. "Would it be too bold if I asked you to move your head just a little… _this_ way?" he demonstrates. When the Reverend obliges, Kasy gets to his feet and approaches him. "Just about," Kasy says, then solemnly asks as he reaches out tentatively, "May I?"

"Please," the reverend smiles, arching his brows to underscore the absolute pleasure that having Kasy position his head will bring.

Kasy reaches forward, very delicately moving the reverend's chin a little to the left, a little up, saying things under his breath like, "That's it, that's good, that's really good, you're perfect," and then keeping his finger a little too long on the edge of good reverend's cheek to make him hold it there.

Kasy takes several pictures, moving around a little, and then sits back down on the opposite sofa. The reverend exhales deeply, his smile never faltering. It's such a pity the boy had to move away. 

The soda arrives, and Kasy and the reverend converse. All of Kasy's questions are about the good work the Church does. The only time he acknowledges at all the subject of the Church's nasty reputation is when he asks the question, "If you could say anything to your critics, what would that be?"

"I would wish our critics be reminded of John 8:7," the Reverend Karl replies, "that _'when they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.'"_

Kasy looks at the reverend with an expression of blissful adoration. Nothing is going to be sweeter than seeing this hypocrite roast like crackling pig on a public spit.

When the interview concludes, Kasy begins to pack his notes and shutter his camera. He thanks the reverend for allowing him to visit, promising an awesome article, that he'll send a copy. 

"There's no need for you to feel you must rush off," the Reverend Karl says. "Unless you have another engagement."

"No!" Kasy says. "I just feel I've taken too much of your time already."

"I enjoy meeting young people who are interested in my work," the reverend continues. "Your energy inspires me. So let's talk a little, Casey. Tell me a bit about what you like to do. Do you socialize with other like-minded young people?"

Kasy's smile falls away. "No," he says. "Not really."

"No?" the reverend replies. "Well, do you have a girlfriend?"

Kasy waits a moment before he reluctantly shakes his head.

The reverend Karl sits forward a little. "No? A good-looking young man such as yourself? I find that hard to understand. Do you like girls?"

Kasy shrugs. "They're okay."

The Reverend Karl gets up and sits thigh to thigh next to Kasy on the couch. In tones thick with sympathy, he asks, "Is it perhaps because you might instead like…boys?"

Kasy looks up at him with impossibly large, bewildered eyes. "Maybe," he whispers.

*

Ballroom C of the downtown Leftball Convention Center is awash with fundraising patrons, each and every one dressed to the zenith in jewels and formal wear. Ezekiel Polo has been there all of three minutes, but already he has scoped out the crowd, a cocktail in hand. On this occasion, he has traded up his Ralph Lauren wool twill for a Ralph Lauren Black Label tuxedo, and his Italian silk faille bow tie is knotted to perfection. Attached to his lapel is a very unique and discriminatory pin.

During his scoping, he has spotted the woman he is here to meet. She's in her mid-thirties, slim, dark haired and violet-eyed, very beautiful in that dangerous kind of way. She knows that he's to make first contact, but being seen together is the dodgy part, especially if, down the road, people ever look back on this evening. No names have been exchanged apart from Ms M. will be secretly meeting up with Mr Z. 

Here's the dope and pay attention. You need to know that in addition to this woman being the Leftball Bathtub Church's reprogrammer, she serves as their legal counsel and is a hugely successful lawyer in her own right. She's currently primed, however, to blow the whistle on the law firm with whom she is attached because her success with them is simply not big enough. She has learned that Mr Z is the top negotiator for a law firm that is much larger and wealthier and that her information might secure her tenure with that firm that will blast her career into the stratosphere. She is to deliver to Mr. Z evidence that will ensure a very short but shrift hostile takeover. She has been led to believe that Mr. Z is basically here to vet her and her evidence. So making a good impression will go a long way in furthering her goals and seeing that the _fait_ is, as they say, _accompli._ Given that she's the type of nasty bitch who uses her private parts for most of her serious conversing (to wit, attempting to persuade sweet young gay men), Ezekiel certainly has his work cut out. 

She's already identified Mr. Z by his pin, which was part of the clandestine arrangements, and they have exchanged brief but knowing glances. She sweeps her eyes sideways to indicate that she is leaving the room like Elvis. Ezekiel finishes his drink, parks it on a passing tray and follows her at a discreet distance. 

His trek takes him into a less populated corridor. He can see her sashaying up ahead, nodding to people she knows but not stopping before she disappears around a corner. When he reaches the corner, he catches a glimpse of her dress exiting through a doorway, and he follows. He enters a large library which is empty and silent, but on the far side is a passageway to another room. He passes beneath its ornate oak carvings into another room, somewhat smaller, but again, empty. She is certainly being careful. He stops and looks at the several doors populating the walls of the room. One is slightly ajar, and he goes to it. 

He has only just passed through it when the hand of a long-gloved arm reaches behind his neck and pulls him inside, lips latching onto his, a body pressing its case. It's a sexy, languid kiss, with lots of flirty tongue and promise. When she ends it, Ezekiel pulls back his head with a lop-sided but very fetching smile. 

"Nice to make your acquaintance," he says. 

"Pleasure," she breathes across his lips.

"What's your name?" he asks. "I hear you have something for me."

"Myna Pelt," she purrs, her bodice catching on his Ralph Lauren.

"Very kind offer," Ezekiel replies smoothly. "But hardly necessary."

"That's my name, you fool. And what's yours?" 

"Polo," Ezekiel says. "Ezekiel Polo." 

Her eyes wander down to the mother of pearl buttons on his dress shirt, her black silk glove toying with one. "Polo," she considers, mouthing the word as if she can taste it. "That reminds me of horses. Should it?"

Ezekiel raises one brow. "That remains to be seen," he says.

"You are very sure of yourself," she laughs.

Ezekiel dips towards her ear. "Can I let you in on a secret?" he whispers. "It's all an act." 

Boy, he's not kidding.

"And a very good one," she smiles. "I've been led to believe there are other secrets you wish to discuss." She steps away from his arms. "Let's get business out of the way." 

They converse, but it's more like the prelude to a dance, both of them circling each other as they speak, showing their power cards one by one. He's toying with her, she can tell, and it infuriates, but he's got the upper hand so what can she do? He concedes a little, but not enough; then he gives her a little hope, but not enough. The minutes tick by; her case gets made. He tells her that her information is solid except for this point, or that point. Finally, they reach a conclusion that is satisfactory to both sides. Perhaps they should seal the deal with a drink, he suggests. Would she like to find a bar? No, she replies, she'd rather find a bed so that she can examine his equine attributes. Really, he counters, one brow back up. I might have to let you in on another secret, he says. There's enough to go around for two. How might she help? 

"I'm not accustomed to playing doubles tennis," she says, somewhat put off.

"But you might if the situation were to warrant it," Ezekiel suggests, and he makes it sound like if there were ever a time that called for her to improve her service game, that time is now. 

"I may know someone," she replies, conceding a smile, moving towards him to stroke his collar. "Someone you'd like. Blonde, big tits."

"You're a resourceful woman," Ezekiel replies, lips coming down to find the pulse point on her neck. "But be sure it's someone you'd like too. Sometimes I like to watch."

*

Two days pass, and we find our intrepid heroes with Mr. McKleverly at S.N.U.G.L. headquarters. Their attention is riveted upon a television screen, where cameras and reporters are shown jockeying with one another, microphones thrust towards the face of a handcuffed and shell-shocked Reverend Urbanite as he is being perp-walked through an endless alley into a precinct house. On the split screen is video footage pulled from a video sharing site. It shows the Reverend's very private business, sufficiently pixilated for public consumption, from the perspective of someone at face level with the pixelled bits, then scanning upwards across a rather complimentary hairy chest to the impassioned visage of the pastor looking down and telling whomever the anonymous cameraman is to "suck it harder like the dirty pretty boy you are." 

"How did you get that shot, Kase, without him knowing?" Ezekiel asks. McKleverly just smiles. 

"Camera in my right contact lens," Konorovitch replies. "If you wait a minute, you'll see what I consider my irony shot." And sure enough, there it is, heavily pixilated, but still very clearly the undeniable image of a young man's hand zooming in to tweak the Reverend Karl's left ball. 

"Nice touch," Ezekiel observes.

"What they're not showing," McKleverly says, "is the footage of Kasy giving him head from the camera placed in the buckle of the bag he left on the table."

"Aren't you concerned that footage will blow your cover?" Ezekiel asks Kasy, mildly concerned. 

McKleverly hands Ezekiel a small jar of face cream. "Kasy had applied this to his face before the visit," Ian explains. "On film, it caused his skin to give off a halo glow that made his face unidentifiable. The reverend looked like he was being fellated by Caspar the Ghost."

"Ingenious," Ezekiel says, examining the contents. He looks back to McKleverly. "Why did they arrest him? Getting blown by Kasy's not a crime." Then he grins and adds, "Although it should be." 

"It seems that once the video was posted, nine other young men came out of the woodwork, stating in the comments that the same thing had happened to them when they were underage, and that they had been seized by the Church for "reprogramming." Two of them have come forward, and they've also identified Myna Pelt as their rapist."

"Seriously," Kasy laughs, "is that her name?" 

"And that is her game," Zeke replies. "We should have left you to handle this case on your own, comrade. I might have been spared some unpleasant nocturnal activity two nights ago."

"Perhaps," McKleverly says. "We couldn’t count on those brave young men speaking out, however. As it is, we have her on record for information theft and gay sex, which should pretty much scuttle her support on two fronts. While she's working her way through the courts on the Bathtub Church front, we will leak her corporate devilry to ensure that her legal defence is undermined." 

"Myna Pelt," Kasy laughs. He can't get over that.

*

Polo and Konorovitch walk out the front door of the erotica shop and don their sunglasses. They stand on the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder, each looking in opposite directions, saying nothing. It's a moment for enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.

After a few seconds, Polo looks straight ahead. "What are the chances we might compare notes and indulge in a little undercover work of our own?"

Kasy looks straight ahead. "As long as I get to be Myna Pelt." He serious for a moment before he loses it and snorts.

"I'm game," Ezekiel says, and he turns towards his ticketless car.

"Beat you there," Konorovitch counters, striding towards his motorcycle.


End file.
